


Fly on Broken Wings

by Saphirefox



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Discovery, Star Trek: Picard, Star Trek: The Next Generation (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Wings, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Mind Control, Mutilation, Physical Disability, Physical Therapy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slavery, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23493163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saphirefox/pseuds/Saphirefox
Summary: A selection of short fics set in an alternate universe where sapient beings have wings that represent who they are.Many deal with the loss of person-hood, autonomy or free will and efforts to regain them.
Relationships: L'Rell/Ash Tyler | Voq, Pavel Chekov & Hikaru Sulu, Seven of Nine & Naomi Wildman
Kudos: 15





	1. Note and Contents

This work consists of a collection of mostly unconnected short fics set in an alternate Star Trek universe where sapient beings have wings that represent who they are.  
I've tried to consider how the existence of these wings would change events so a few things (including the events of the Dominion War and what happened to Ash Tyler) will be different in this fanfiction. The changes will hopefully become clear as the story progresses.  
I'm unsure how many chapters this will contain.  
I apologies for any mistakes. This is a fanwork created purely for enjoyment.

CONTENTS  
Chapter 1: Author's Note and Contents  
Chapter 2: Irreparable (Dr. Culber disagrees with Lorca's decision to assign Tyler to active duty.)  
Chapter 3: Physical Therapy (Seven has difficulties. Naomi helps.)  
Chapter 4: Amputation (The mysterious Dominion sends an envoy.)  
Chapter 5: Stunted (The infant Jem'hadar grows.)  
Chapter 6: Broken Things (Weyoun 6's defection.)  
Chapter 7: Rare Colours (Tyler makes a discovery on Qu'onos.) NON-CON WARNING  
Chapter 8: Beyond The Reach of Light (Vkruk [the Reman viceroy] raises Shinzon.)  
Chapter 9: Numb (Keevan doesn't know how to do anything beyond try to survive.)  
Chapter 10: Salvage (Hugh knows the xBs will never be accepted.)  
Chapter 11: Closing In (Chekov copes with the events of 'Wrath of Khan'.)


	2. Irreparable

Captain Lorca and the newly promoted Lieutenant Tyler were leaving the firing range. Tyler was smiling but his wings were folded in tightly against his back, not quite managing to hide the scar tissue where on either side the carpometacarpus bones and everything beneath them had been amputated. Hugh suppressed the urge to shudder.

The Captain and Lieutenant separated, going in opposite directions down the corridor and the doctor hurriedly moved to intercept Lorca. “Captain, can I speak with you for a moment?”

“I’m rather busy,” the blonde haired man said without stopping.

Hugh followed him. “It’s important.”

Lorca pressed the control pad to summon a turbo lift. “Alright, make it quick.” The doors opened as he finished speaking. Both men stepped inside.

“I’ve already stated that I don’t believe Lieutenant Tyler is fit for duty.”

“You have.”

“And you promoted him to Chief of Security.”

“I did.” The Captain’s pale face was framed by his dark wings. The obsidian black feathers that dominated his plumage made Hugh uneasy.

‘Black as coal is a stain on the soul.’ Unbidden the idiom entered the doctor’s mind.

He pushed the thought away; there were plenty of good people with dark wings.

“You’re putting too much pressure on him,” Hugh said. “He needs time to recover.” His own primarily brown wings twitched with agitation.

“I’ve spent time with him and gone through his service record. He’s resilient and a very competent officer. I’m confident he’s ready for the responsibility.”

“Captain the man described in those records is not the same man you brought onto this ship. You must have seen how his wings have changed! Even… even ignoring the mutilation the colour shifts alone are alarming. He was tortured for _seven months_. It has _affected_ him. He should be in a safe environment receiving appropriate medical care.”

“And what good is that going to do Doctor Culber?”

“What?”

“If he spends the next year talking to therapists it’s not going to undo what happened to him. They’re not going to be able to fix his wings or anything else the Klingon’s broke. No one is. So what’s the point?” Even if Hugh hadn’t been speechless, Lorca gave him no chance to respond. Instead he continued. “Tyler’s functional and he wants to pull his weight in this war, so let him. He’s of no use to anyone sitting in some hospital.” The turbolift doors opened and Captain Lorca stepped out onto the bridge. “I imagine you’re needed in sickbay,” he said without looking back.

Hugh thought of the images in Tyler’s medical file, taken before his capture showing the colour patterns of his wings. Colours of warmth, youth, softness and innocence had predominated. They looked more like wings he’d have expected to see on a child than a young man. In a period of seven months those pale childish colours had shifted to a far more adult palette, one that spoke of violence and fear.

A second idiom ran through the doctor’s thoughts, ‘There is no greater crime than to darken the wings of a child.’

He watched Lorca as the turbolift doors shut. The Captain’s wings had darkened too, after the Buran. People said it happened almost overnight.

Hugh wondered if – in the galactic sense – the Federation were children. He wondered, if this war took their innocence, what would be left behind?


	3. Physical Therapy

Seven frowned. She concentrated on raising her wings.

“Good! Now hold them there.”

The appendages shook as thin muscles protested. “I am attempting to do so Doctor.”

“I’m going to count to twenty. Try to keep your wings spread until then.”

She made it to eleven.

“Alright, let’s try again.”

“No. This exercise is pointless.”

“I understand that trying to train atrophied muscle can be frustrating.”

“It serves no purpose. Even if I regain full range of movement and muscle strength my wings will not function with twenty-five percent of their length missing.”

“Seven… flight is not the sole purpose of wings.”

“I believe that is precisely their purpose.”

The Doctor sighed. “Wings let people fly yes but they also serve other functions. For example, an individual’s plumage colouration gives an indication of the personality traits they may possess. The predominance of pale green in your wings for example suggests that you are still in the process of maturing. When I was first activated my wings were simply a copy of Doctor Zimmerman’s. I had my program altered to allow my holographic wings to change to better represent the developments in my own personality. I went to that trouble because your wings are an important representation of who you are as a person. They also play a major role in body language. I was planning to bring the topic up in your social lessons when your muscle strength improved but the way you hold your wings motionless against your back is unsettling for most people.”

Seven’s frown deepened. “I am sure that waving scarred over stumps in their faces will make them far better disposed towards me,” she said. She may not have gotten the hang of social niceties but sarcasm she could manage. She walked out of sickbay.

“Alright, let’s finish early for today,” the Doctor called from the doorway, trying to regain some semblance of control, “but I want to see you bright and early tomorrow!” Seven kept walking.

She was heading for cargo bay two even though it was many hours before she would need to regenerate.

“Seven.” Lieutenant Torres was standing in front of her, a hard plastic case held in one hand, red feathers twitching with agitation. “Can you bring these sample containers to Tom? I said I would but now there’s a problem with some of the plasma relays.” Without waiting for a reply she thrust the case into the other woman’s hands and hurried off towards engineering.

Voyager was currently landed on an uninhabited M-Class planet. It was temperate with slightly lower gravity than Earth and rich in plant life, though lacking any large animals. While they gathered food to replenish their stores, much of the crew was taking the opportunity to enjoy the fresh air and sunlight. Lieutenant Paris was collecting samples of the vegetation for the Doctor, who wished to assess them for any potential medicinal value. They had been discussing it when Seven had arrived for her therapy. She made her way to disembark.

Not yet having had cause to visit the planet surface, Seven was surprised by the openness of the wide green plains she found herself in. In every direction they stretched to the horizon, broken up only by rolling hills and patches of denser vegetation. The unfamiliar landscape prompted a discomforting feeling in her chest. Quickly locating Tom Paris, she handed the sample containers to him and began to walk briskly back to the ship.

“Seven!” Naomi Wildman’s small smiling face appeared from behind a clump of shrubs, her colourful wings fluttering excitedly. “Are you busy? Do you want to play?”

“I am not busy,” the former Borg drone replied, for it was true; she was still supposed to be undergoing physical therapy with the doctor. “I could play kadis kot if you wish.” Though she would not admit it, she quite enjoyed the game.

“No, we can play that anytime. Come on,” she said, taking hold of Seven’s prosthetic hand, “I’ll show you how to make daisy chains.”

“Daisy is the common name for plants from the family Asteraceae, also known as Compositae,” Seven said as she found herself being led across the green plain. “They are not native to this planet.”

“There are flowers _like_ daisies,” Naomi replied.

A short while later found them sitting on a quiet hillside, stringing together flowers that did indeed resemble daisies.

“I do not understand the purpose of this activity,” Seven said, frowning at her messy string of blossoms.

“You just make pretty chains of flowers,” Naomi said, finishing off her own. Smiling she hung it around Seven’s neck. “See.”

Seven nodded, fingering the petals without looking up.

“Are you sad about something?” Naomi asked.

“I am…” she searched for the right word, “frustrated.”

“Why?”

“The Doctor is eager for me to build the strength of my wing muscles. I am finding it a futile exercise.”

“Cause the Borg hurt your wings and now you can’t fly?”

“Yes.”

Naomi frowned but a moment later her expression shifted to a wide grin. “I have an idea!” she said. Then clambering to her feet and running off in the direction of the next hill, “Come on! Follow me!”

The low hill she stopped on had mostly gentle slopes but on one side, only a meter or so from the base, the ground abruptly dropped away before continuing flat and green. “I was practising flying here earlier,” the young girl said. “It’s perfect. Look, watch me!” she shouted, running off down the hill. When she hit the sheer section she jumped, wings spread and glided several meters before flapping down to a slightly clumsy landing. Seven was unsure how she was supposed to respond.

“Now you try!” Naomi called.

“I am not capable of flight.” She had thought that would be obvious, even to a child.

“This is just gliding; you don’t have to flap. You’ll be able to do it, just try!”

Seven was uncertain. Even without the reduced surface area of her wings, the metallic implants that littered her body significantly increased her weight. She started to calculate lift and drag. Naomi called again from the bottom of the hill, interrupting her mental maths. “Come on, you can do it!” She wanted to. More than anything else in that moment she wanted to move through the air like her young friend had done. She stopped trying to work out if it was possible and ran down the slope.

Just before the drop she pulled her wings out as far as they would go and jumped.

She could feel it! She could feel the air moving through her feathers, buoying her up. Her heart was pounding so hard that she had the irrational thought it might burst through her chest. Then the weak muscles in her wings failed and she fell.

Naomi ran over, concern clear on her young features, as Seven picked herself up to sitting. “Are you okay?” she asked. Seven’s biological hand was grazed and she suspected that beneath her suit bruises were appearing on her knees. She was however, smiling widely.

She had been airborne for only a couple of seconds but she could think of nothing to compare to the feeling of freedom and exhilaration those few seconds had brought.

“I am very well. Thank you Naomi.” She was still smiling and it made her cheeks feel strange.

Taking in her expression the girl started to smile too. “Do you want to try again?”

She did. 


	4. Amputation

Standing in the transporter room Commander Sisko had to remind himself not to shift his wings impatiently in front of Kira. That was the sort of thing he'd tell his son off about for goodness sake! He forced himself to assume a parade rest stance. He _was_ impatient though. After months of negotiation through various intermediaries the Dominion had finally agreed to send a formal representative. It was the hope of Starfleet that opening diplomatic relations could forestall the looming war.

A Dominion ship had come through the wormhole twenty minutes earlier and transmitted a voice only message to stand by for transport. So where was the ambassador? Ben was seriously considering hailing them when Miles finally announced an incoming signal and a transporter beam began to coalesce into a humanoid shape.

Ben felt any hope of peace with the Dominion evaporate the moment he laid eyes on their envoy. He was very small, almost looked like a child with elongated limbs and huge violet eyes. But his wings...

To clip someone's wings was appalling, the worst thing you could ever do to them. _This_ was unimaginable. His wings weren't just clipped, they were hacked off. The stumps that were left were barely a foot long. Sisko felt his muscles tense as he drew back in instinctive revulsion. To send a representative in this condition could be taken as nothing other than a threat.

The alien gave a polite little bow, which only provided a better view of his mutilated wings. What feathers remained seemed to be primarily shades of yellow and green. "My name is Weyoun," he said, voice smooth and even. "I am here on behalf of the Dominion."

Kira bristled. "Who did that to you?" she demanded as her red wings gave a loud flap.

It seemed to take him a moment to understand what she was referring to. Then a soft sound of comprehension escaped his lips. Nodding his head to the Bajoran he said, "Forgive me if my appearance disturbs you. It is a sacrifice that all Vorta must endure to better serve the Founders."

"So you're not a Founder," Kira stated. Ben could hear the disappointment in her voice.

Weyoun laughed suddenly, the sound at odds with the mood in the room. "Of course not," he said with seemingly genuine amusement.

Ben knew in that moment that there could never be peace between the Federation and the Dominion. The hope for it had been cut away from, as surely as the flesh and bone had been cut away from the creature that stood before him, the unsettling smile still on its pale face.


	5. Stunted

The baby appears at first to be a fairly unremarkable, if unknown, variety of humanoid. He has brown skin, brown eyes and a small patch of scales in the centre of his forehead. His tiny wings are covered in the same pale green down that always predominates in the plumage of infants.

A few hours later, when the boy has grown to the size of a Human eight year old, it becomes apparent that he is not so ordinary as he first appeared.

The rapid growth is alarming. The changes in his appearance are startling, eyes changing from brown to black, skin to dark grey, its texture becoming rougher. The patch of scales on his forehead resolves itself into three small horns. What is most shocking however, is what does not change. His wings still look like those of a new-born.

Another day and the boy appears to be a teenager, now clearly recognisable as a Jem’hadar. His wings still have not grown. Those who see him soon realise that the twin bulges evident beneath heavy armoured fabric on the backs of every Jem’hadar soldier are not the stumps of amputated wings as on the Vorta. Rather they are full wings but stunted and constrained.

Odo thinks that without the restrictive battle uniform the young Jem’hadar’s wings would eventually grow to fit his body. He wants to raise him. However the boy is violent and uncontrollable by anyone but the shapeshifter. Starfleet want to study him, sends a ship to pick him up.

The young Jem’hadar wants to go to the Gamma quadrant, to be with his own kind, to fight.

Honestly, Ben thinks being a federation lab specimen sounds like a better life than a Dominion soldier.

With Odo’s history it’s little surprise that he disagrees. It’s not much more of a surprise when he takes a runabout and, against orders, returns the Jem’hadar to the Gamma quadrant.

Ben can’t say if he’s done the right thing or not. The situation was not one in which a happy ending had ever been much of a possibility. The next time he sees Jake, he hugs him. The teenager is as tall him now. Only small strips of pale green remains near the tips of his strong, bright wings. Ben thanks every power in the universe that his son is alive and well, swearing to do all he can to keep him that way.


	6. Broken Things

Odo is not terribly surprised by Gul Russol’s absence. Who he finds waiting for him instead though… that is a surprise.

The Vorta’s over-large eyes seem almost to glow in the darkness of the cave.

“I suppose Russol is dead then?” Odo asks.

“Months ago,” Weyoun replies. “I’m sorry for deceiving you.” His voice is quiet, subdued.

“So why did you? Obviously you wanted to bring me here but why?”

“You were the only one I could think of to contact. I’m sorry.” The Vorta’s head drops as he shifts his gaze towards the ground. With the faint light no longer reflecting off his pale face he is all but invisible.

“Come forward where I can see you.”

Weyoun moves a few steps closer, a faint whine of pain accompanying the movement. He still doesn’t look up.

“Who are you?” Odo demands, shock colouring his voice. Because this is not the Weyoun he knows. This Vorta has wings, broken and hanging limp but present. Wings don’t just grow back.

“I’m Weyoun six. You knew Weyoun five.”

“There are _six_ of you?” Or even more?

Weyoun shakes his head and winces. “Only one at a time,” he explains. “All Vorta are clones. When one dies, the next in line is activated.”

“So the Weyoun I knew is dead?” Odo isn’t sure what to think about that.

“Damar killed him.” Weyoun shivers.

Odo wonders how long he has been waiting in the cold cave. “Why are you here?” he asks.

“I… I ran away.” He finally looks up again. “I’m sorry; I know it’s an honour to serve the Founders. But it hurt too much and everything is so _wrong_.” His arms wrap tightly around his small chest. “I ran away. You were the only one I could think of to go to. I’m sorry.”

Sudden realisation stuns Odo. “Are you defecting?”

“I want the war to stop.” He is crying. Odo has never seen a Vorta cry before, hasn’t realised they were capable of it. He comms the runabout and has it beam them both up.

In the brighter light of the Rio Grande Odo gets his first proper look at Weyoun six. What he sees concerns him. In contrast to his predecessor’s pale lilac complexion, his skin is chalk white. The only colour on his face is the dark circles around his eyes. Both wings are broken in multiple places. Their colouration is clearly different from what little had remained of the other Weyoun’s plumage. Nearest his back yellow green and olive predominate, fading into jade green then blue and finally indigo at the wing-tips. Odo is confused by the rust-red patches for a moment, until he realises they are blood.

Odo needs to get him back to Deep Space Nine and seen by Dr. Bashir as soon as possible. Not just because the Vorta may have intelligence that could dramatically shorten the war but because he has to be in an almost unbearable amount of pain. Odo knows that his people caused that pain, just as surely as they have caused the war.

Odo hands Weyoun an emergency blanket – because he is still shaking – and tries to figure out the best way to send a coded message through the wormhole. The Defiant and her cloak is their best chance of getting out of this alive.

Odo wants the war to stop too.


	7. Rare Colours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Non-con

Ash doesn’t know what he was thinking.

No, that’s a lie. He knows.

He was thinking:

_Maybe I can help to prevent another war?_

_I killed Dr Culber._

_They won’t want me back on the ship._

_I hurt Michael._

_I don’t deserve to go back._

Ash knows exactly what he was thinking when he decided to stay on Quo’nos, with L’Rell. He also knows it was a mistake.

L’Rell tried to make him her torchbearer. A Human being given a role, even a ceremonial one, in the High Council was unprecedented and incendiary. A Human with pinioned wings… It almost cost her the Chancellorship.

Kol-Sha had told her to keep her perversions to herself and her pets in her quarters.

He isn’t in her quarters now.

He hates her quarters.

He isn’t sure where he is, though he thinks he’s still in the section of the council building set aside for the High Chancellor’s family and retinue.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

He'd woken to L’Rell untying the fastenings on his shirt. He moved to push her hands away. She'd caught his wrists, stilling them with one hand. She'd made a shushing sound, said, “I will not hurt you.” and kept stripping him. He'd shivered, even though the air was hot. He'd wanted to move away but she was bent over him, blocking his escape. He'd wanted to tell her to stop but the words stuck in his throat. 

Her pale eyes seemed to bore into him, searching for something that wasn’t there, for a dead man that she herself killed.

Maybe she managed to delude herself into thinking she found some trace of Voq or maybe she was just too lonely to care. Either way she leaned forward and presses her mouth against his. The kiss was slow but her teeth were sharp and he tasted blood.

She’d let go of his wrists. He didn’t understand why he hadn’t pushed her away. He was about to but then her hands traced a path along the edges of his wings and suddenly he was back on the prison ship. He was frozen in front of her, waiting to see if she was going to _touch_ or strap him down and start cutting. She bent towards him. She trailed her tongue down the line of his neck and a flood of shame-filled relief rushed through his mind; he hated being with her but it was better than the alternative.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Sharp teeth piercing the flesh above his right collarbone brought a momentary flash of pain. L’Rell’s hand was between his legs. Her clawed fingers provided rough, unwanted stimulation but his body responded. She lowered herself onto him and his eyes shot open at the sudden shock of heat. L’Rell’s scarred face stared down at him. Wait… scars… He remembered how she got those scars. Lorca got him out! This wasn’t the prison ship; he was on Quo’nos. What was he _doing_?

He made to push L’Rell away but she caught his wrists again, pinned them to the wall and kissed him forcefully. Still atop him she started to move more rapidly. He bucked, trying to push her off him but she moved with him, groaning with what might have been pleasure. “Stop,” he tried to say but her tongue and teeth were in the way. He could feel tears on his cheeks. He could feel her shuddering out her climax.

She stilled, slumped over him and then a moment later started to move again. He didn’t want this. Her hands had slipped from his wrists and he shoved her forcefully aside. She blinked, looking at him as though he was the one who’d done something wrong. _‘Maybe I did,’_ he thought. _‘Maybe this is my own fault.’_ Then L’Rell started to sit up and he stopped thinking, grabbed a handful of his clothes and ran.

Ash is wearing trousers, an undershirt and no shoes and doesn’t know where he is going.

He made a mistake staying on Quo’nos and now he can’t see any way out.

The thought of contacting Michael crosses his mind but he quickly buries it. He wants more than anything to see her but she’s been through enough, shouldn’t have to deal with him butting into her life on top of everything else.

 _‘This is where I belong,’_ he reminds himself. He doesn’t deserve a second chance. He deserves to be right where he is, with L’Rell. The thought forces fresh tears from his eyes. He hears a cry and for a moment thinks it comes from his own throat but no, it is thin and reedy, the sound of a small animal or an infant. There it is again, weak but insistent. It continues. Becoming slightly concerned, Ash begins to make his way towards the source of the sound.

He finds a large high-ceilinged room, empty but for several torches and a dark metallic looking cradle. It is from the crib that the cries continue to emanate. Uncertainly, Ash makes his way closer. He is sure someone is about to arrive and attack him for getting too close to their baby but he can’t just leave the child distressed and alone like this. Crossing the final few feet to the cradle he looks down at its occupant. His breath catches in his throat.

The baby is tiny, premature looking and very clearly albino. Ash can see no other explanation than that this is the child of Voq and L’Rell yet knows that is impossible. He is still crying. Very carefully, Ash lifts the fragile form from the crib. The crying stops. Midnight blue eyes stare up at him.

The infant’s skin is translucent, tinged blue by the veins beneath.

Ash knows he is not the father of this child, even if Voq somehow is.

The baby’s smiling at him. He doesn’t know a whole lot about babies but he’s pretty sure new-borns don’t smile. How old is this _tiny_ child?

He does know that Klingons usually kill albino infants, see it as a sign of weakness to let them live.

He remembers Voq’s childhood and his own. Neither of them had fathers.

His mother said he wasn’t missing much. She was a great Mom. He still remembers wanting a Dad.

Voq couldn’t remember having ever had parents.

The baby makes a soft, happy sound as they wriggle, loosening their swaddling enough that the tip of one tiny wing pokes out. It is covered in thin down, the pale green of youth mixed with patches of white and gold that suggest this child will be something truly special.

Ash is well aware that the colouration has nothing to do with the lack of pigment in the baby’s skin.

Voq’s wings had been solid red.

There used to be white in his own wings, before everything. It’s gone now, either faded or cut away, he’s not sure which.

He can count on his hands the number of times he’s seen that colour in someone else’s plumage.

He knows he’s not the father of this child.

He knows he should leave, that standing here, rocking this baby is asking for trouble.

But he also knows a baby shouldn’t be left to cry alone in a crib.

Ash knows he’s not the father of this child.

So why does he feel like he is?


	8. Beyond The Reach of Light

Vkruk finds the boy being beaten by the overseers. He is not Reman by blood but being Reman has never been about blood; it is an identity born of shared suffering. The boy is Reman. Vkruk stills the club one of the Romulans is swinging.

He calls them cowards for beating a child. His actions earn him several blows of his own, as he had known they would. He can take a few hits. After knocking him to the ground one of them kicks him and they leave, which was all he had really hoped to achieve. He gets to his feet and goes to check on the boy, who he had feared the overseers would beat to death.

The child is small, with oddly pale skin and tiny, round ears. He has hair like the Romulans, though finer and of a lighter colour. He is bruised and dirty, struggling to get up. His yellow and green wings are broken.

Vkruk kneels in front of him, carefully tilting the boy’s head from one side to the other as he attempts to assess his injuries. His skin feels soft and thin, his bones fragile. Vkruk struggles to imagine a physiology less suited to labour in the dilithium mines. Abruptly he realises the child has been sent here to die.

Vkruk teaches him how to survive.

The boy doesn’t have a name so Vkruk names him Shinzon.

He uses bits of scrap metal and wire to splint the broken wings. They never heal properly but there is no space to fly in the mines anyway.

Shinzon cuts off his hair so that he stands out less from the other Remans. The overseers still take every opportunity to single him out for punishment. Vkruk does his best to treat the wounds and lessen his pain.

Shinzon grows, if remaining oddly small to Reman eyes. Physically he is far weaker than his brethren. The Romulans regularly break bones when they beat him. He’s learnt the lesson Vkruk thought him though; he always gets back up and keeps breathing.

Inevitably, his wings darken. They’re still brighter than the mines.


	9. Numb

Keevan suspects his wings were cut incorrectly.

The stumps are longer than they should be and they hurt. They _always_ hurt, even if that pain is currently being eclipsed by the blinding agony in his mid-section. With every breath the broken pieces of his ribs seem to stab a little deeper. He tries to keep his breaths shallow, even though it barely helps.

He turns his head to one side on the rock that serves (poorly) as a pillow, away from the light of the cave entrance. His short-sighted eyes are met with the feathers of his left wing stump. They are maroon and two different shades of ugly yellowish greens (at least he’s been told they’re ugly and has no reason to doubt the veracity of that report). Beyond his own feathers he can just make out the case for the white. Most of the drug was destroyed in the crash. What’s left will run out soon. When that happens, the Jem’hadar will kill him. He imagines that will hurt even more than his crushed insides.

He wonders why he doesn’t just activate his termination implant. It would be quick, even if he doesn’t believe for one moment that it would be painless. The Founders hate their creations far too much to give them peaceful deaths. He keeps breathing and tries not to admit, even in his own mind, that he returns the sentiment.

In the Starfleet officers he sees a potential means of escape.

They are disgusted when he sends the Jem’hadar to their deaths. He doesn’t understand why; it was the best outcome anyone involved could have hoped for.

Their disgust doesn’t really concern him; the fact that he’s no longer in danger of being ripped apart by dying Jem’hadar does.

He knows he’s only delaying the inevitable, that he’s made himself a prisoner of war and that a painful death is coming sooner or later. Still he can’t bring himself to activate the implant.

He’s turned over to Starfleet Command for interrogation. He knows nothing of any value but they don’t seem to believe that. He keeps waiting for the torture to start. It never does. At worst the interrogation is uncomfortable; the men conducting it shout and bang the table anytime he starts to fall asleep and he’s thirsty. Apparently even that is considered overly harsh by Federation standards, if he’s to take at face value the harshly whispered rebukes he overhears being made to the interrogators as he is escorted from the room.

He’s brought to a cell. There a tray with food and water and a little behind that a bed; it’s better than the one on the fighter.

At some point he’s taken to what he assumes is a laboratory. He expects to be cut open and studied. He hopes the scientists knock him out first. Yet all they do is run beeping scanners over him and he wonders when they will get started.

A Human woman who introduced herself as a doctor comments on his heart-rate. “Are you frightened?” she asks with a frown. He has no idea how to answer that.

She frowns some more at the stumps of his wings, asks if they hurt. Of course they hurt. They never stop hurting but why would he tell her that? “What do you think?” he asks instead, lips curling into a sneer.

She injects him with something she claims is an analgesic, though he feels no effect at all.

He is confused when he is brought back to the cell unharmed.

The Federation continues to feed him multiple times a day and let him sleep on the comfortable bed.

He likes sleeping.

There are a few more medical exams but the most invasive thing they do is take a blood sample. After a few weeks they stop altogether.

He doesn’t understand why Starfleet is keeping him alive when he has clearly outlived his usefulness.

He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Finally, months later, it does, when he is told there is to be a prisoner exchange, that he’s being sent back to the Dominion.

“If it’s all the same to you,” he says to the guard ordering him to get up, “I’d just as soon stay here.”

He’s pulled to his feet and led from the cell. He doesn’t want to go. He let himself be captured. He didn’t even try to self-terminate. He’s going to be killed. It’s going to take a long time and it’s going to hurt. It has to be that way, as a deterrent against other Vorta doing the same thing, not because the Founders are cruel (but they are).

He could still activate his implant but he won’t; he can’t.

He wants to go back to his cell.

He wants to go back to sleep, to barely remembered dreams where the pain is a distant ache and the wind rushes past.


	10. Salvage

Hugh can’t remember a life before the Borg, not that he’d call his time with the collective living either. As far as he’s concerned, his life started when he was severed from the collective, when he was given a name and the ability to make his own choices.

There are trillions upon trillions of nameless still lost to the collective. No one seems to even want to try to save them, no one except the Romulans.

He knows they’re not doing at out of altruism but honestly, he cares more about the results of their actions than the motivation behind them. They’re giving back lives to thousands of people. It’s a microscopic scratch to the unimaginable multitudes still trapped in the collective but it’s _something._

He understands that very few people actually want to help xBs. They are unsettling to look at, to talk to, to think about. Most people would rather pretend they didn’t exist. And of course there are those that blame them for the actions of the Collective.

He’s not sure what species he was originally, though he looks like he could have been Human. He’s a Federation citizen. Still he knows he could never be accepted in the paradise that is Earth. The pinioned wings give away what he is even before the cybernetics and scars do.

In a world where gashes and broken bones can be healed instantly, no one seems to know how to cope with people so visibly damaged. He had to fight to convince the Romulans not to ‘euthanize’ the disordered. They think they’d be better off dead.

They’re not though; they’re alive and he’s going to try his best to help them.


	11. Closing In

Pavel can’t breathe. He can’t move and it hurts. Everything hurts. Captain Terrell’s legs are jammed up against his. It must be worse he thinks for the Captain, who is taller and broader than him. He wants to say something but he _can’t_.

“Now sit quietly and wait for Admiral Kirk.”

Khan’s orders ring in his head.

They’re going to die. There’s not enough air. They’re going to suffocate. They’re going to suffocate if they’re lucky. That’s the best outcome, he thinks.

If the air holds out and no one finds them, they’ll probably die of thirst. That would be slower, worse, still better than Kirk finding them.

He wants to scream but he can’t.

The screams of the scientists echo in his mind. They screamed in pain, screamed for help. He couldn’t help.

“Stand there. Look this way. Pass me that. Good.”

The cramped muscles in his wings scream for release and his head feels like it will split open from the pressure of the eel. The metal walls of the box are crushing him and in the silence he can hear the slow dripping of blood.

He wants to scream but can do nothing but sit in silence.

Pavel’s eyes shoot open and his breath catches in his throat. It’s dark and for a moment he doesn’t know where he is. Then the mattress beneath his still aching limbs registers. He is not in the box. He is in a bed, in a room on the Enterprise.

The sheets are sweaty and constraining and he pushes them away, climbing to his feet and activating the lights. He paces, trying to steady his breathing. The muscles in his wings are cramping and tense. He tries to stretch them out but the appendages remain stiff and tight against his body, shaking from the effort. He remembers his arm held out, phaser in his hand, shaking as he tried to keep from pulling the trigger. 

Captain Terrell was strong enough to turn his weapon on himself. Pavel doesn’t think he would have been strong enough and the thought makes his stomach turn.

The room is standard sized officer’s quarters, so why does he feel like the walls are pressing in?

He can’t breathe. He has to get out.

Pavel has already pressed the chime outside Hikaru’s door when he realises that it is the middle of the night shift and he is still in his sleep wear. He is about to leave when the door slides open. Hikaru stands in its place. He’s wearing a shiny dressing gown over loose-fitting pyjamas but moves to let Pavel in without a word. One of his wings (shades of grey, reds and greens) wraps around the slightly smaller man as he leads him to a couch.

Hikaru doesn’t say anything, waits for Pavel to speak.

When he does it all comes out in a jumble.

“I couldn’t _do_ anything.

Just what he said.

He tortured those people in front of us.

He killed them and I _couldn’t_ do _anything._

Just sit in a box.

I’m supposed to be a Starfleet commander and I was too weak to do _anything_.”

“You’re not weak,” Hikaru says, speaking for the first time since Pavel’s arrival.

He shakes his head. “I still can’t… I can’t get my wings to move.”

Hikaru’s hand is a warm pressure against his back. “You’re going to be okay Pavel.”

Somehow it was only then that he starts to cry.

He doesn’t know how long he stays sitting there, his face buried in his friend’s shoulder. Hikaru’s hand rubs gentle circles just beneath his shoulder blades and slowly, the cramping muscles start to relax. His scarlet and bright pink wings (the tips still pale green despite having lived four decades now) sag downward. Shakily, he moves them to lie against Hikaru’s, wrapping around them both.

“You’re going to be okay.”


End file.
